Tag: humor

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Too Much of a Good Thing

By Paul Higbee

“You’re sure? Four hundred across … what’s this state?”

“South Dakota.”

“Four hundred miles across South Dakota? I didn’t think I was even near the place. It never occurred to me I’d ever set foot in South Dakota.” By this time the original information has sunk in. “Anyway, I thought it was a little state.”

Living near the South Dakota-Wyoming border, I’ve had several such conversations. Call these folks South Dakota’s accidental tourists, motorists using the nation’s interstate highways to get from the Pacific Northwest to jobs in Chicago, basic training in Texas, funerals in Ohio. Nobody told them they’d spend the better part of a day in the great unknown between Spearfish and Brandon. Or Spearfish and North Sioux City, if they hang a right on I-29.

They wonder, in perfectly serious tones, will there be gas? Food? AAA? ATMs? Fellow travelers?

“All those things,” I assure them. Sometimes they believe me.

For Americans who label themselves “bicoastal,” the region between the Cascades and Appalachians might be quaint. We’ve got all the necessary ingredients — scenery and a generous supply of out-of-the-ordinary people, places and things — it just needs to be condensed somewhat.

Montana is trendy these days, so west-to-east travelers on I-90 can relax and enjoy the scenery. Which is a good thing since there’s so much of it, nearly 600 miles worth. Next up is a few hundred miles of Wyoming. Then comes South Dakota.

It’s right there in Rand McNally, but South Dakota still comes as a whopper of a surprise for some drivers. Between our western border and Spearfish the country looks a whole lot like … well, Montana and Wyoming. The state seems a tad redundant.

So these accidental tourists pull into the first gas or food joint they spot, as long as they’re still within sight of the I-90 lifeline, seeking not gas or food as much as human contact. Black Hills folk have learned to recognize them by their awkward opening lines.

“Wind always blow like this?”

“Get a lot of snow here?”

“Think people will ever outnumber cows in these parts?”

To which locals offer well-rehearsed replies.

“It stopped blowing after you crossed into the shelter of the Hills.”

“Not enough to keep the fire danger low through summer.”

“Hope not, because cattle are more profitable than people most years.”

Accidental tourists are completely a breed apart from traditional ones, who South Dakotans know are eager to hear of Indian lore, shortcuts to Wind Cave and lurid details of Wild Bill Hickok’s assassination.

So it comes as a shock to be describing, say, how the bullet passed through Wild Bill’s skull and into his poker pal’s arm only to have an accidental tourist interrupt you.

“Yeah, yeah,” they say impatiently, “but if I drop down to I-80 and cross Nebraska instead of South Dakota, does that put me into St. Louis any sooner?”

Joan Bockwoldt, who ran the I-90 information and rest area on the South Dakota-Wyoming border for 20 years, told me accidental tourists may be a vanishing species. “There were a lot more 10 or 20 years ago,” she says, crediting better information systems for motorists, including on-board computer mapping, for the decline.

Perhaps sensing this development, some Black Hills residents are insisting that accidental tourists shape up right now and behave like traditional ones. Recently I overheard an elderly woman scolding a man whose only hope was to see Minnesota by nightfall. He had no intention of seeking out Mount Rushmore.

“You’ve got to see it!” she insisted. “It’s the Shrine of Democracy!”

“Okay, I’ll take a look. I can see it from I-90, right?

“No!”

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed. If only South Dakota could be condensed, so all our finest features were adjacent to I-90 and I-29, we’d rank first in quaint.

Editor’s Note: Paul Higbee has written regularly for South Dakota Magazine since 1991, serving as our Black Hills correspondent. This column appeared in our May/June 1998 issue. To order a copy or to subscribe, call us at 800-456-5117.

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Celebrating with Martha & Roger

By Roger Holtzmann

Martha Stewart publishes a magazine modestly called Martha Stewart Living. It’s about country living, or rather, about what country living would be like if you (a) had tons of money like Martha and (b) lived in the center of a vast circle of antique stores, curio shops, old farms, garage sales and flea markets, all manned by incredible idiots who were willing to give you great deals on frighteningly charming stuff.

Martha thoughtfully provides readers with a calendar each issue so they know what she is doing every day. From that we know, for instance, that her primary task on October 28th will be carving pumpkins for Halloween.

That might seem a bit excessive, but in all fairness, there’s more to it than you think. A lot more. First of all, Martha doesn’t just restrict herself to pumpkins.”Use any gourd that speaks to you,” she says. Perfectly good advice, for sure, but if gourds are speaking to you at home, I don’t think I’d mention it to the neighbors.

Don’t go attacking your pumpkin with a butcher knife, either, or they’ll look like some”clumsy primate” carved them, says Martha. If you can’t produce a Jack-O-Lantern that looks like it was carved by a primate with $160 to spend on a set of proper pumpkin carving knives it might be better to forego this traditional decoration altogether.

It may already be too late for you to have a Martha-esque Halloween, but you can possibly salvage Thanksgiving if you start now. Planning ahead is the key: I am sure you’ll agree that leaving such an important holiday to chance, or heaven forbid, to that-is-how-we’ve-always-done-it, is just asking for trouble.

For instance, by November 5, you should switch your turkey’s diet to golden corn to make it tender. Remember, not blue corn, not green corn, and especially not that red stuff. It has to be golden.

What’s that? You just wait and buy a turkey at the grocery store when they are on special?

Goodness Gracious, why don’t you just serve a ham?

Don’t tell me …

Very well. Eat whatever you must, but you’re certainly getting off on the wrong foot.

Spend most of November planning your table settings and decorations. Call in sick if you have to. As Martha says, a proper table”guides guests effortlessly through the meal.” You know yourself how aggravating it is when you get lost in the middle of dinner. So take care, or risk losing Uncle Edgar in sweet potato gulch.

Many families have special sets of silverware and dishes they use on holidays. Mysteriously, though they only come out of the cupboard twice a year, there are always pieces missing. This usually means someone gets stuck with a plain old fork or regular plate. You will be glad to know Martha says that’s okay, so long as you don’t mix pieces from different eras.

You do know what era your flatware’s from, don’t you?

Like many of you, I have managed to become nearly comatose from eating at Thanksgivings past using only three basic utensils. So you can imagine my distress when Martha pointed out that a full place setting consists of 25 utensils. That’s seven knives, ten forks and eight spoons. This could drastically impact your seating arrangements. That table you thought could seat eight probably can only handle two people, once you line up all those forks. It’s a good thing you started planning early. There’s still time to buy a new table. Or two.

Remember, make your guests feel like you really thought about the table. Martha says that can be accomplished by using an Aubusson tapestry from your antique textile collection as a tablecloth, along with hand-loomed linen napkins.

Oh my. You don’t own any Aubusson tapestries?

No, a sheet will not work.

Listen, let’s just forget Thanksgiving. Maybe there’s still time to plan a decent Christmas.

For next year, of course.

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Let’s Get In on this Opportunity!

By Roger Holtzmann

When a bull gets to snorting and stomping and swinging its horns wildly about, looking for something to impale, most people try to make sure there’s a good strong fence between themselves and the beast. Except for rodeo clowns, of course, but they are a wee bit crazy so I’m not sure they count.

Then there are the thrill seekers who journey to Pamplona, Spain, every July for the Running of the Bulls. Each morning during the weeklong festival honoring St. Fermin a half-dozen bulls are released into the streets, which have been blocked off to make a path to the city’s bullfighting arena. Whoever wants to prove their machismo, or machisma, is invited to get in the stampeding animals’ way.

Between 200 and 300 people are injured every year, mostly scrapes and bruises, out of around 20,000 participants. Many of the injuries occur at the arena’s entrance, where the runners are funneled together and can get trampled by either man or beast. A half-dozen are gored every year, which has resulted in 15 fatalities since 1910, the last one four years ago.

“Last month in Spain, a University of Utah college student and an Australian woman were gored by bulls,” wrote Jeremy Olson in the Minneapolis Star-Tribune last Sunday.”During one run, participants and spectators screamed as a bull tossed a Spaniard to the ground and attacked him, with fellow runners trying to pull the animal away by its tail. The man was eventually dragged to safety.”

Rob Dickens thought this sounded like such wonderful fun he formed a company called Great Bull Run, which will stage ten such events around the country. The first one will be held August 24, at a drag-racing strip south of Richmond, Virginia. About 5,000 people have signed up so far.

A running of the bulls is tentatively scheduled for May 14, 2014, at Canterbury Park, the horse racing track in Shakopee, Minnesota. Organizers plan to line a quarter-mile section of the track with protective nooks and fences that can be climbed in case a runner decides, for some unfathomable reason, that sharing an enclosure with an angry bull isn’t such a great idea after all.

Dickens has promised he’ll not be using the hyper-aggressive Spanish fighting bulls bred and trained to be the main attraction at bullfights, which would seem to defeat the whole purpose. Won’t that be like going to an amusement park where all the scary rides have been shut down?

That’s not all. Canterbury Park spokesman Jeff Maday said that he and other track officials will attend the first event in Virginia first to see if it is a”good and safe attraction.” How does one make running from bulls”safe” anyway? Put rubber tips on their horns? Make them wear soft, cushy bedroom slippers to make getting trampled a more pleasurable experience?

I say South Dakota should get on this bandwagon, but we need to unwimpify the experience. Pick the nastiest bulls we can find, for starters, then feed them alfalfa laced with jalapeno peppers and gunpowder. Grease down all the fences to make escape harder. Dig a few tiger traps along the course to make it more interesting. Put hydraulic doors in some of the nooks to shove runners seeking shelter back into the bulls’ path.

Take that, Minnesota!

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Hello, Bob

By Roger Holtzmann


Editor’s Note: Roger Holtzmann, who has been writing our Seriously, Folks column for over 23 years, doesn’t claim to be able to predict the future. He says it’s more a case of that old saying: even a busted clock is right twice a day.

Picture this: it’s the not-too-distant future, on the 17th floor of a glass tower in a non-descript suburb somewhere. Cubicles beyond number stretch from wall to wall, each inhabited by a softly glowing computer monitor and the worker bee who lives to service it. They type. They double click. They murmur. All but one. Let’s call him Bob.

Bob is vastly bored. He leans back in his $900, ergonomically correct chair until he’s a fraction of an inch from the point where he will overbalance and crash to the floor. He hums tunelessly. He spies on the woman in the opposite cubicle until she glares in his direction. She thinks Bob is a dork. That’s because Bob is a dork, and has personal hygiene issues to boot. Suddenly his computer chimes. Bob springs forward, concentrating intently on the computer screen for a moment.”He bought a bag of bolts from Bogart’s,” Bob mutters despondently. His computer goes back to sleep. He leans back, staring at the ceiling he knows by heart. He thinks about the baloney sandwich he brought for lunch.

This vision of the future came to me the other day while I was reading the newspaper. I was supposed to be working at the time so please don’t tell anybody I was goofing off. The story was about these little silicon chips, as small as the head of an ant, which will someday be embedded in most everything we buy.

In order to better understand this issue, I went in search of an actual ant. I didn’t have to go far. There is an ant watering hole by our kitchen sink. With a bit of English muffin for bait and the assistance of two fearless native bearers, I managed to capture one of the wild beasts.

Take it from me: an ant’s head is pretty small. Yet by some electronic legerdemain, the people who know about such things will be able to store information about the various products within the chip. You won’t have to go through an old-fashioned checkout line anymore, I gather. You’ll fill up you cart with shoes and ships and sealing wax, then walk through a big device that will read all the chips. Your credit card, still in your wallet, will be automatically read as well. All of this information will then be transmitted to Bob and his friends at the speed of light.

Oh, the possibilities! You walk out of the store with a twenty-pound bag of Cheese E Puffs and a 55-gallon drum of cola. By the time you get home an ad for diet pills — Eat Anything You Want! No Exercise Required! — will be beaming off the satellite straight into your home.

That’s not all. In the great and glorious Some Day Soon home appliances will be able to read these chips. Your refrigerator will tell your milk is past the Use By date, making the sniff-then-gag method of milk testing obsolete. Your washing machine will know when you’ve washed a particular pair of underwear for the thousandth time, and be programmed to deliver a subtle reminder.”What if you get in an accident and wind up in the emergency room?” it will say.”You don’t want the nurses to see you in raggedy shorts, do you? Better head to Massive Mart and get yourself some new ones.” Some visionary visionists have even envisioned a time when the washing machine won’t ask. It will simply order new underwear — purple ones if it senses you’re in a rut and could use a change — then bill your account. Won’t that be a timesaver!

All the usual suspects are whining about this new technology, of course. Big Brother, privacy, blah blah blah. I certainly can see their point. A vast, multi-tentacled computer that knows everything there is to know about the state of the nation’s underwear and snack food consumption could easily be turned to evil ends. I’ve tried very hard to be worried about all the possibilities, but it’s just not happening.

Why, you ask?

Let me answer this way. I always tell people we have the ultimate security system at our house: we don’t own anything worth stealing. Burglars can sense this, and go right on by. Ditto for our vehicle. What self-respecting hoodlum is going to pick a lumbering high-top van for a joyride? The boys in lock-up would never let him hear the end of it.

My defense against the data miners of this world runs along the same lines. My life is so inconsequential, so boring, no one will be very much interested in what I do, buy or say. I barely care about that stuff myself. Which brings me back to poor Bob, whose weary, bleary job it will be to keep track of me.

Sorry, Bob.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the September/October 2003 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call 800-456-5117.


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Why They Don’t Let Dads Buy Prom Dresses

By Lee Schoenbeck

Ok — you think it’s because it just doesn’t sound like a dad thing. You can’t imagine saying,”Come along, Father, it’s time to go pick out the perfect prom dress. What shades of mauve do you think will be in this year and match the new shoes I plan to buy?”

Ok — you have a point. Dads can do many things, but making shopping trips that don’t involve Cabela’s, Scheels or Gander Mountain is probably not on the list. And maybe the reason dads don’t buy prom dresses is the same reason they aren’t invited off the parking lot at the mall, or along on any shopping weekend. Dads make sense. Dads are normal. Dads don’t get crazy at the scent of a corsage. Apparently, dads just don’t get it.

A PRE-PROM DAD

When my daughters were still young enough to love me, and ride around with Dad on a Saturday in his pickup, I remember telling them about those prom-dress-buying parents. I’d hear they’d spent a couple of hundos on a dress that was going to be worn once, and I’d think they were nuts. Certifiable. Unquestionable. Under-medicated. Nuts.

THE FIRST PROM DRESS

Ok — so when my first daughter was getting ready for her first prom I got all soft and thought,”What the heck. If my princess wants a hundred dollar dress for this big night — I’m all in.” Don’t go there. Don’t get soft on this one. They’ll lead you on like you are the greatest dad, who’s proven his unending love. The hook has been set. You are done. Here’s the reality: the only place they wear a hundred dollar prom dress these days are as blankets on streets near homeless shelters in New York. You have taken the bait.

A THOUSAND MILE DRESS

So when it came time for my daughter and the Understanding One to find a dress, Dad of course recommended the big shop just down the road from his favorite hunting watering hole, Stan’s Bar. Oops, that’s the watering hole. The dress place, Jean’s Bridal Shop, is world renowned, at least in the part of the world that Dad drives around in. Jean’s got so many wedding dresses in that place, that single men get the nervous shakes just driving past it on Wilmot’s Main Street.

But it was not to be, because Dad knows nothing about fashion. Dad doesn’t realize that no prom dress shopping is complete unless you drive once to Minneapolis (and home) and then once to Sioux Falls (and home) in search of the perfect dress. But Dad’s doing the math on the miles. If this dress was a pickup, it would need an oil change before it ever got to a prom!

After its turn in the spotlight, the perfect prom dress joins its sisters in the closet.

CRISIS

So the first dress makes the drive from Minneapolis, only to appear the next week on the cover of the ad insert of the Argus for a department store with locations in Sioux Falls and Watertown! Seriously, same color and everything, which doesn’t mean much to a dad. But to The Understanding One and daughter, it means this dress has to go back. It is bad — it could pop up any time and spread a plague or something. So, as Dad smiles, daughter and The Understanding One head off to the local Wilmot shop and find the perfect dress — with two weeks to spare.

CRISIS REVISTED

Apparently dress shops keep logs of the proms where these expensive peacocks will show up — lucky Dad! A few days later the call comes that this new dress will appear, worn by somebody else, at the same local prom. This is apparently unacceptable and a violation of some teen honor code. Never mind that the prom is now about a week away and a blizzard is forecast to move into the area that night. Daughter and The Understanding One trek off through the Summit Hills for another chance at a dress at the Jean’s Bridal lottery (are you keeping track of these miles?)

CRISIS AVERTED AGAIN

Again, mysteriously, the perfect dress appears. No polka dots like the last perfect one, and not green like the perfect one before that, but perfect nonetheless. The prom dress gods have smiled on our family.

OK — SHE’S BEAUTIFUL

Well that night, through the glare of a thousand pictures, even Dad had to admit that the battle appeared to be worth the end result. Dads enjoy their daughters looking beautiful; they just think that blue jeans are all it takes. Dads see beauty unvarnished, but are willing to admit that varnished is pretty nice too. Just as Dad is basking in the proud role of some shared responsibility for the beautiful young lady, a reality flash hits — we’re going to have to do this again next year too!

PRELUDE TO A WEDDING DRESS

Two daughters through high school, and eight formals later, Dad feels like he’s got this licked. Each formal was an opportunity to see what lovely ladies we raised. In a few years the home mortgages for the dresses will be paid off, and life will go on. But nagging in the back of Dad’s mind is that Spencer Tracy movie, Father of the Bride, and Steve Martin’s remake — virtual documentaries of the challenges faced by dads of the bride. Post-prom dads wake up in a sweat with night tremors over what THOSE dresses will cost.

While I haven’t shared this yet with The Understanding One, this dad is encouraging his daughters to each look for a fine, outstanding young man, who owns a ladder and a sense of adventure — you wear blue jeans to an elopement, don’t you?

Lee Schoenbeck grew up in Webster, practices law in Watertown, and is a freelance writer for the South Dakota Magazine website.


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Our Favorite Winter Sport

By Roger Holtzmann

Remember that old pioneer tale about the guy who gets trapped in a blizzard? He’s lost, can’t get a fire started and is unable to find any kind of shelter. As a last resort he shoots his horse (or in some versions, a cow) in the head, cuts him open and survives by utilizing the warmth of the animal.

Luckily, no one had invented animal rights yet. Aside from that, I’ve always had problems understanding that story. What exactly is the procedure here? Do you climb in the animal’s stomach? Or do you just stick your head in for a while, then alternate with your feet? Maybe you stick your feet up through his neck, running your torso through his stomach, which would put your head right about … no, that can’t be right.

Doesn’t the carcass freeze up after a while anyway? So there you are, covered with blood, your head (or whatever) stuck where no man has gone before, and you’re still freezing.

Right about then, more than one immigrant probably thought, “Geez, I should have stayed back in Europe. Starving to death in a potato famine wouldn’t have been all that bad.”

Unless some of those pioneers were world-class liars, which is a possibility, somehow it got done, and here we are. When we think of stories like that we sometimes feel a little twinge that we whine about such piddly things — we wonder if maybe that pioneer gumption hasn’t been diluted by central heat and factory-rolled cigarettes.

In defense of modern men and women, though, just let me say this: Sleeping inside a dead animal is an accomplishment, all right, but there are few things that will test the mettle of humanity more than today’s favorite winter sport, Getting The Car Stuck.

There are all kinds of variations on the theme automobilae immobilicus, winter variety. There’s one which happens right outside your home that even novices can enjoy since this version doesn’t require you to do anything at all. It occurs when you awaken to find your car — or rather, a tiny portion of your car — peeking out from a gigantic drift.

If you live in a city, and your car is parked on the street, you’ll find that for the first time in history they plowed your street early, piling up additional snow and leaving you a $25 ticket to boot.

If you live in the country, you’ll notice you parked your car with the engine side north. This allowed snow to blow in, completely filling the engine compartment and insuring your car won’t start even if you do get it shoveled out.

For advanced grief, there ‘s nothing like The You Bet Your Life Whirling 360 Spin Of Death. All you need for this is a plain old road, a coat of ice, and the foolish belief that you absolutely must be somewhere else. Someone who ‘s enjoying this activity is easy to spot: They’ re in the ditch with a pulse of about 210, clutching their steering wheel, repeating their favorite expletive over and over. And over.

After the heart attack phase, you sit there thinking should I try to walk for it or not? Every expert says stay with your car, but you know that advice is bogus. They assume you’ve packed an emergency kit in your trunk. but of course you never got around to that. Besides, anyone stupid enough to accumulate experience being stranded in cars doesn’t sound like someone you can depend on for advice.

You’ll try to get a tow truck, but there will be three bozos in front of you. You’ll try not to think of yourself as a member of bozodom but it won ‘t work. That delay will leave your car out there becoming encased in its very own drift. Which will hide it from snowplows.

As you sit in the gas station drinking vending-machine coffee you’ll ponder them –large steel blades welded onto 20-ton trucks whose drivers have been living on caffeine for 48 hours. And your car — your nice, barely half-paid-for car — on the same road.

“Boy, I wish all had to do was sleep inside a dead horse,” you’ll say.

Then there’s plain old garden variety getting stuck, invariably following the thought “I think I can make it.” This situation is (a) a major pain in the caboose (b) embarrassing and (c) often costly.

First, you’ll mentally run down the list of people you consider bosom friends to help you in your hour of distress. Or, people you barely know but who own four-wheel drives and a tow rope. Then get set for physical activity that, when people do it on flat ground in front of their house, frequently causes heart attacks. You’ll be asked to shovel around, over, behind and under — especially under — your car.

When you need a break, try pushing the car. Strain your back, arms and legs in one easy motion. Occasionally fall down and get sprayed in the face with snow and gravel. Work up a good sweat then stand around in the cold. Repeat until dizzy.

As the smell of burning rubber wafts up from your 60,000 mile deluxe radial that now has 134 miles left on it, take heart in your heroic part of a continuing frontier saga.

This year, in a bit of nostalgia, I am encouraging all my friends to do their winter traveling with a large, live animal in the trunk. Then, during winter emergencies, they can recreate their pioneer past. You can too.

Either that or join Triple A.

Editor’s Note: Contributing Editor Roger Holtzmann’s column “Seriously, Folks” regularly appears in South Dakota Magazine. This column is revised from our January/February 1993 issue. To subscribe, call us at 800-456-5117.



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Chance Encounters of a Rural Kind

By Janice Mikesell

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the September/October 1998 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call 800-456-5117.


There’s Mount Rushmore. There’s Crazy Horse. There’s the Corn Palace. Nationally known monumental projects, involving renowned artists, years of effort and enormous expenditures of money.

And then there are the simpler pleasures. Take rural mailboxes. Simpler perhaps, but every bit as delightful. Particularly delightful because they are unexpected, they are stumbled upon, they jump out at you like a jack-in-the-box with a grin on his face.

But are they really so simple? Look again. Consider the expert mortaring involved in persuading a pile of bricks to turn a rounded corner. Consider the effort involved in welding a collection of horseshoes so that they, too, turn a corner. And consider the skill involved in forging a piece of metal into a whimsical sculpture of a mother kangaroo and her baby.

Although no tourist guide describes them and no map pinpoints their location, finding a unique rural mailbox is not at all difficult. All you have to do is pick a country road — any country road — and point yourself in whichever direction suits your fancy. This is best accomplished on a long, leisurely, absolutely aimless day. Just keep going: sooner or later you will find your mailbox. And there it will be: a giggle, a surprise, a delight.

But what’s the creative spirit behind all of this? Best not to ask. Try asking a South Dakotan to explain his”artistic motivation” and be prepared to be laughed out of the state. South Dakotas are not inclined toward self-important pronouncements.

But if their owners refuse to talk, their creations are more than willing to speak on their behalf. Listen to what they have to say:”Look at me. I’m here. Out in this vast and overwhelming space, I exist. And, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a very clever fellow.”


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Deadwood Dick vs the Whitewood Skunk

By Ruth McPherson

He never sat with his back to a door, that grim old-timer who claimed to be the hero of the Deadwood Dick dime novels. He assumed the stance of an alert shotgun guard at all times, in spite of the fact that no stagecoach robber had been observed in our little town for many a decade.

His weather-beaten face was flecked with powder burns and his piercing, squinched eyes were ever on the lookout for trouble. He seemed to stand tall, due to his lean build, and the peaked crown of his black Stetson added to the deception. His name was Richard Clarke, but he preferred to be called Deadwood Dick, and most of the townspeople humored him.

Dick lived in obscurity for a number of years and his oft-told tales of vanquished Indians and outwitted holdup men were discounted by local listeners. His prosaic job as a railroad section hand did much to diminish belief in his stories of previous adventures. Some of his neighbors regarded him as a pathetic and deluded old man.

It was in 1927, when he was in his early seventies, that Deadwood Dick was born again. Bert Bell, an energetic and imaginative press agent for Deadwood’s Days of 76, acted as midwife in the rebirth of the fictional hero, and Dick Clarke became the character that he had impersonated for many years. Dick was given a buckskin suit, the use of a cabin in Pine Crest Park for his lifetime, a place of honor in every parade, and he was lionized with proper respect by the cult buffs of the Pioneer.

Robert Casey, in his book, The Black Hills, said that some of Dick’s disbelievers claimed he “didn’t know which end of the gun to hold away from him when he pulled the trigger.” Our family could prove this was not the case.

It was our privilege, when we moved to Whitewood in 1920, to live in the house next door to Deadwood Dick. Before his sudden rise to fame removed him from our town, we considered him a satisfactory neighbor, except for one alarming trait. He was much too quick on the trigger of his trusty rifle. The fact that the index finger on his right hand was missing did not slow his fast draw.

I was a senior in high school when I experienced the humbling result of Deadwood Dick’s fast draw. Mother had mentioned on one of Dick’s visits that a skunk had taken up residence under our screened porch. Dick assured her that he knew just how to take care of the problem.

Why he chose 8:30 the following morning to exterminate the animal, I shall never know, but just as I was leaving for school, a shot shattered the early morning stillness and my life was changed for many weeks thereafter. The skunk returned Dick’s fire with an odor that contaminated our neighborhood for blocks.

By the time I reached the Lemaster home, I knew that I would not be welcome in class, and I decided upon what I foolishly considered a quick fix. I had tied a 25-cent piece in my handkerchief for some notebook paper, so I dashed down to Gustin’s Drug Store for a quarter’s worth of perfume. Earl, in his haste to get rid of me, handed me a half pint of the cheapest, smelliest kind in stock, and held the door open for my departure.

I drenched myself with the malodorous liquid, and in my rush to reach class on time, I failed to realize the full horror of combining the essence of skunk with the overpowering scent of magnolia and musk. I tried to slip into the room without being noticed, but my odor preceded me and as I came through the door, all eyes in class were upon me. I raced to my seat amidst a concert of gagging and retching sounds, and Lorene Jay, who sat in front of me, promptly fainted. Professor Munson quickly appraised the situation and suggested that I leave the room immediately.

As I slunk away, totally disgraced, I noticed that Lorene had returned to consciousness, with many solicitous classmates in attendance. Tearfully, I stumbled home with anger eventually replacing my humiliation. I deplored the fact that no early-day combatants had sent a well-placed bullet or arrow to the heart of our hero, Deadwood Dick, and I plotted ways that I might accomplish the job they had left undone.

At home, I found my exasperated mother trying to air out the house that smelled worse even than I, before I added the putrid perfume. The unfortunate skunk left his imprint on our household for several weeks, but Deadwood Dick has lingered in my memory as he appeared that ill-fated morning so many years ago. Only my futile anger has faded, dissolved by laughter and nostalgia for those “good old days.”

Editor’s Note: Ruth McPherson, a Black Hills native who lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico, wrote this true tale of Deadwood Dick’s exploits for our July/August 1991 issue.

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The Cadillac Caper

We had a good laugh after reading a story in the March 27 edition of the Wessington Springs True Dakotan. They learned about the incident in the Plankinton South Dakota Mail, and now we’re retelling the tale to you.

It’s said that criminals often return to the scene of their crime. That was true on March 9th, when the Aurora County Courthouse in Plankinton was the scene of a brazen daytime theft. Larry Unruh had parked his red Cadillac out front while he took care of some official business inside. When he left the building, the Cadillac had disappeared.

Luckily, Deputy Preston Crissey was on the scene. He sprang into action, running upstairs to the Sheriff’s Office to issue a stolen car bulletin and alert the Highway Patrol, then back out to patrol the streets of Plankinton and track down the culprit.

Mr. Unruh headed up to the Sheriff’s Office to make a report of his own. When questioned by Sheriff David Fink, Unruh reported that the vehicle was full of gas and his girlfriend’s purse was inside, full of money.

“While the investigation continued, Sheriff Fink looked out the courthouse window to the north and surprisingly saw a vehicle fitting that description traveling east very slowly on Fifth Street,” read the South Dakota Mail report.

Unruh looked out the window. Yes, it was the missing Cadillac…and it was pulling back in to the courthouse parking lot. The two men went into the Clerk of Courts office to get a better view from their window.

Two figures got out of the pilfered Caddy. The getaway driver was a young high school girl. Her passenger was a man with a clipboard — driver’s license examiner Dale Steffen.

“According to Sheriff Fink, the young girl’s parents dropped her off for her driver’s test and drove away. Not knowing this, Mr. Steffen believed that was the family’s vehicle, while the nervous young driver assumed it was the test vehicle.”

“Mr. Unruh told Sheriff Fink, ‘I’m not pressing charges!'” said the Mail.

We hope that the teasing has died down in Plankinton for all parties involved. Thanks to the South Dakota Mail and the Wessington Springs True Dakotan for sharing the story.

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A Taxing Time of Year

By Roger Holtzmann

As you probably know, it’s March. Which means it will soon be April — that foulest of moons when the Internal Revenue Service turns us all upside down and shakes us to see what falls out. Actually, they’ve been taking our money all year long. But on April 15 they ask us to cooperate in our own fleecing: Please fill out these forms so we can see if we’ve gotten absolutely everything we can out of you.

Oh, by the way, if you lie to us we may have to send you to jail. Sorry.

Most of us have been so terrorized by IRS horror stories we fess right up. As our pencil is poised over line 29, visions of guys in flak jackets busting down our front door flash across our mind. “You didn’t think we’d miss that $10 you won on the Super Bowl, did you?” growls Agent X, sticking his machine gun one millimeter from your nose. “Well, you were wrong! And now we’re going to confiscate your house!”

I used to wonder if they could really be all that great at tracking down malingerers. What if all those horror stories are actually made up by bureaucratic toadies with job titles like Rumor Monger III?

At the risk of spreading tax collector phobia even further, let me just say that I am now a believer. All it took was one trip to our local Social Security office. In the course of filling out a history of my employment I realized that, according to my account, there must have been periods when I lived on nothing but air and sunsets. Either that or there were some gaps in my memory.

I decided the latter was more likely, for a couple reasons. One is that I’ve held a lot of different jobs in my life, several of which I’ve done my best to forget. Reason number two is that before I got married, my complete personal financial records could fit in a shoebox, with plenty of room left over for the shoes. When I saw the words COPY FOR YOUR RECORDS I took it as a personal challenge to throw it away as quickly as possible.

Then, to top it off, I lost the shoebox.

Not to worry, said my friendly Social Security representative. With nothing but my social security number and about 30 seconds of computer time, she was able to produce a printout listing every job I’d ever had.

That clichÈ”They knew more about me than I knew about myself” came to life before my very eyes. They knew about my truck driving job that lasted three days. They knew about one summer spent custom combining. They knew about one incredibly long month spent sanding six by eight inch pieces of wood and then attaching plaques that said “Jesus Loves You” to them.

They knew about my time on a giant construction project where I worked about an hour a day and got paid for ten. You see, I was assigned to assist a guy named Beano — who did not want or need an assistant. So I smoked a lot of cigarettes, listened to tales of Beano’s often stormy home life and occasionally ran an errand for him. It was a high point in my working life.

They knew about jobs I loved, jobs I hated, and everything else. First I was amazed, then I got worried: After all, the government obviously knew everything about me, down to the number of holes in my underwear. Every questionable thing I’d ever done flashed in front of my eyes, starting with last year’s tax return.

Not that I have anything to hide. When it comes to taxes, I’ve always pretty much laid the truth as best I could. Remember, you read it here if it should ever come up at my trial. You’re my witnesses.

But like most taxpayers, there have been times when I’ve read the instructions — then reread them — and still don’t have the faintest idea what they mean. I work at figuring out the right number for a while. Then, out of frustration. I simply plug in a reasonable sounding number and go on to the next line.

In addition to that, I still have problems with my filing system. I have good intentions, these days, as far as my records go. I’ve moved up from a shoebox to a peach crate filled with lots of manila folders. They sit right next to my adding machine and at least 14 sharp pencils.

But something always seems to go wrong. I’ll look for a particular piece of paper, say a phone bill from March. As I locate the folder entitled PHONE BILLS, I feel good, organized and on top of things.

Let’s see, here’s January, February, April, May, Jun … THERE’S NO MARCH! I frantically paw through piles of papers I don’t need, ripping several, crumpling a couple, raging against that incomprehensible truth: There is no March. What goes through your mind at a time like that is similar to what occurs upon being surprised by an empty toilet paper holder.

Six months later I will find March’s phone bill in a file entitled THINGS I’LL NEED TO DO TAXES. But in the meantime, what’s a taxpayer to do? The IRS frowns on blank spaces — you’ve got to give them something. Even if you have to make it up. So it’s back to the old reasonable-sounding number strategy.

As I drop my 1040 into the mail box, a fervent prayer goes along with it: Let there be a special wing in tax prison for people with pure hearts and no bookkeeping skills.

Amen.

Editor’s Note: Contributing Editor Roger Holtzmann’s column “Seriously, Folks” regularly appears in South Dakota Magazine. This column is revised from our March/April 1993 issue. To subscribe, call us at 800-456-5117.